


Biphasic

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine case has unexpected consequences for Peter's team - especially Neal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frith_in_thorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frith_in_thorns/gifts).



> This was written for frith_in_thorns's [prompt](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/118436.html?thread=990628#t990628) at whitecollarhc's [Fever Fest II](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/118436.html). It contains spoilers up through 4.14 "Shoot the Moon," though not for anything after that (including the end of the season). Warnings for some medical ickiness, including vomiting. 
> 
> Thanks to Fuzzyboo for beta reading!

Tromping through an abandoned warehouse in Queens was not what Peter had had planned for his Sunday afternoon. He’d had a very pleasant day of watching the game with El and doing _absolutely nothing_ ahead of him, but then one of Neal’s street contacts had turned something up on the forger they’d been after for weeks. Now here he was, in a dark, dank warehouse that smelled like an armpit.

There were times when Peter really questioned his life choices. Not usually for very long, because all he had to do was look at Neal to remember how much worse his decisions could have been, but at moments like these . . .

“Boss, there’s no one here,” Diana called from the second floor.

“No one but a bunch of rats,” Jones added. A skittering sound accompanied his words. 

Peter winced. “All right. Let’s look around a bit more, see if Donaldson didn’t leave some evidence behind. You, too, Caffrey,” he added, holding out a pair of rubber gloves to Neal, who looked like he was five seconds away from suggesting he wait in the car. “Come on. This is a team effort.”

Neal grimaced as he took the gloves and snapped them on. “Peter, I highly doubt -”

“Don’t, Neal,” Peter said. “Look, if we get this over with, you can come over for dinner. El was thinking about making pasta sauce tonight from scratch. You don’t want to miss that, believe me.”

Neal perked up at the prospect, as Peter had known he would. The two of them spread out over the ground floor, while Jones went upstairs to join Diana. Within forty-five minutes, Neal had turned up a few shavings of paint that Peter suspected would match the paint on the forged Picasso currently sitting in an evidence locker, and Diana had found a handful of partial prints. All in all, Peter called it a job well done. He let his agents head home, and he took Neal back to the house with him for a pleasant evening of pasta and DVR’d football.

Three days later, they arrested Donaldson. By Thursday, there was nothing left but the paperwork. Normally, lulls made Peter nervous, because Neal didn’t do well when bored, but this time he was grateful; a headache had settled in at the base of his skull that afternoon, and no amount of Advil could get rid of it.

It was still there at four o’clock on Friday, when Diana appeared in his doorway. “Hey, boss,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “Would it be okay if I headed out early?”

Peter gave up on the file he’d been reading. It had stopped making sense at least thirty minutes ago, anyway. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Any plans this weekend?”

“My sister’s coming to town tomorrow, actually.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah,” Diana said, sounding distinctly unenthused. Peter raised his eyebrows. “Sorry. It _is_ nice. It’s just that she’s a professor in some podunk town in Missouri, so whenever she comes to see me, she wants to go out dancing.”

“And that’s not a good thing?” Not that he himself had ever enjoyed that sort of thing, but Diana struck him as the sort who might.

“Normally I’m up for it, but I’m totally worn out right now. But it’s fine,” she added with a shrug. “I’ll just take it easy tonight. Watch some TV and go to bed early.”

That sounded like a great idea to Peter just then. “Okay. Have a good night.”

“You, too, boss, thanks.”

Peter pushed himself to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. Down in the bullpen, he could see Caffrey at his desk, head propped on his hand, doodling idly. Jones’s desk was empty; Bank Fraud had borrowed him for the afternoon.

Peter gave in. He grabbed his coat and trudged down the stairs. He picked up Neal’s hat from its perch on his desk and set it on Neal’s head. Neal glanced up. “Peter,” he said, immediately pasting on a smile, “I was just -”

“Doing nothing,” Peter said. “Me, too. Come on. I think we earned an extra couple hours of weekend.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Peter said. “Now get your ass in gear. I’ll drop you at June’s on my way home.”

“Thanks,” Neal said, sounding genuinely grateful for once. He shrugged into his coat, and the two of them went to wait for the elevator. “Any interesting plans this weekend?” he asked Peter.

“Not really,” Peter said. “Probably watch the game - hopefully without any interference from your street contacts, this time.”

“Hey, my street contacts gave us the evidence that’ll put Donaldson away,” Neal pointed out.

“True,” Peter conceded. “What about you? Plans?”

Neal shook his head. “June’s out of town, and I haven’t seen Moz in a couple of days. I might do some painting. Maybe go to MOMA tomorrow afternoon with Sara.”

There was a joke that Peter would usually make there, about Neal casing the place. But it seemed like a lot of effort. Neal was unusually subdued, too, and Peter didn’t feel like taking him down a peg. So instead he just nodded.

It was a relatively quiet drive to June’s. “Have a good weekend,” Neal said, as he climbed out.

“You, too,” Peter said, with a wave.

The drive back to Brooklyn in rushhour traffic was never pleasant, but today it seemed to take twice as long as usual. By the time Peter found parking on his street, his headache had reached near-blinding levels. He fumbled his keys out on his front porch, suddenly wishing that El didn’t have an event that night. Inside, he went through the motions of letting Satch out and back in and filling his water and food bowls before going upstairs. He downed a double dose of ibuprofen in the bathroom, then went into the bedroom. He only meant to change into sweats before making himself dinner, but the bed looked so inviting that he stripped down to his underwear, leaving his suit in a puddle on the floor, and crawled beneath the covers.

He was asleep within minutes and didn’t wake when El returned and crawled in beside him. When he woke, it was to a dark bedroom and the certainty that he was about to be very sick. He threw back the covers and stumbled toward the bathroom, ignoring El’s confused, “Peter?” He barely made it in time to be violently ill into the toilet.

“Hon?” El said, flicking the bathroom light on. Peter flinched, groaning as the pain in his head skyrocketed. “Sorry,” she said, and used the dimmer to turn it down. Peter threw up again, and El went to sit on the bathtub, resting a cool hand on the back of his neck. “Breathe,” she said, and reached over to flush the toilet. Peter rested his head on his arm on the rim of the toilet, closed his eyes, and tried to slow his breathing. “Better?” El asked after a minute.

Peter shook his head. “Not much. God.”

“What’d you have for dinner?” El asked. She got up and went over to the sink, where she took a clean washcloth out of one of the drawers and ran it under the tap. 

“I . . . nothing,” he realized. “I came home and went straight to bed.” At five-thirty. He should have realized then that something was wrong with him.

El seated herself on the bathtub again and draped the damp cloth across the back of Peter’s neck. “Sounds like you already weren’t feeling well. Why didn’t you call me?”

“It was just a headache,” Peter said. “I’ve had it since yesterday.” He leaned over the toilet again, heaving. But he hadn’t eaten in over twelve hours, and there wasn’t much to bring up. El rubbed his back until he was done, then handed him the cloth so he could wipe his mouth, and a cup of water to rinse and spit. “Thanks,” he said, sitting back.

“Come on,” she said, prodding at him. “Don’t get comfortable here. Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Not sure that’s a great idea,” Peter said. Even the few sips of water he’d taken felt miserable in his stomach. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the nausea, tried to concentrate on how El’s fingers felt, stroking his hair, but after a moment or two he gave up and leaned forward to be sick again.

“Oh honey,” El said, sympathetically, stroking the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

Peter groaned, pillowing his head on his arm on the rim of the toilet. “You should go back to bed.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Here, sit back,” she told him, and helped him ease himself back to sit against the wall. He tilted his head back, swallowing. “Just a sec,” El told him. He nodded and listened to her leave the bathroom. When she came back, she draped a fresh washcloth over his eyes and a blanket, warm from their bed, over the rest of him. “Open your mouth,” she said. He did so, and she slipped a thermometer under his tongue. Then she sat beside him, gently kneading his scalp with the pads of her fingers, until it beeped. “A hundred and two,” she announced. “How are you doing?”

“A little better.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Sort of.” He sighed. “At least it’s Friday, and we don’t have an active case.”

“You know, hon,” El said, “most people’s reaction to getting sick on the weekend isn’t, ‘oh good, this won’t interfere with work.’”

“Yeah, well, most people don’t have a convicted felon they have to keep entertained, lest he commit further felonies.”

“True,” El said. “But Neal can entertain himself for a few days, I’m sure. Do you think you could try drinking some more water?” Peter pressed his lips together and shook his head. “What about ginger ale? I think we have some downstairs.”

“Yeah, maybe.” 

El went downstairs. Peter slumped against the wall and let out a slow breath, suddenly even more grateful than usual - and ever since Keller, Peter was very grateful indeed - that he had El with him. The truth was that he felt more ill than he ever had as an adult, and he wouldn’t have wanted to try and handle this on his own.

El returned after a couple minute with a glass of ginger ale. Peter took the washcloth off his eyes to take the glass from her. “Slowly now,” she told him, and draped the cloth over the back of his neck again.

The ginger ale stayed down more easily than the water, though it took him forever to drink just half of it. By then his eyelids were growing heavy, and he was in danger of dropping the glass. El rescued it from his loosening grip and then helped him up. He leaned on her as they shuffled back into the bedroom, where he sank gratefully down onto the bed. El set the ginger ale on the bedside table, along with the thermometer. “You should try and take some Advil,” she said.

“Maybe later,” Peter mumbled, already half-asleep. “Don’t think it’d stay down now.”

“Okay, later then,” she agreed, and brushed her lips across his forehead before going around to climb into her side of the bed. He felt her fit her body to his, spooning him protectively, and let himself fall easily toward sleep.

He was sick twice more in the night. By morning he was exhausted and feverish and his whole body hurt. His fever was higher, too, creeping up toward 103, and El was visibly worried. She called the on-call advice nurse for his doctor’s office, and was told there was a bad GI virus going around that was making a lot of people sick. As long as he was able to take in fluids and the worst of the symptoms were gone within twenty-four hours, there wasn’t anything to worry about. She pushed ginger ale at him whenever he was awake. 

He thought El had probably had something she’d had to do today - she often did, on Saturdays - but she stayed home. He couldn’t find the energy to argue about it. She curled up on the bed with him as he drifted in and out of sleep. He was chilled from his fever, and she was so warm, and all he could think was that he was far, far luckier than he had any right to be.

By Sunday morning, Peter could at least say that he hadn’t thrown up in twenty-four hours, but he suspected that might only be because he also hadn’t tried eating or drinking anything other than ginger ale. He felt terribly weak - even getting out of bed to use the bathroom was an ordeal - and his fever remained stubbornly high. El started looking worried again. Peter ate a few crackers to please her and managed not to bring them up through sheer force of will. He didn’t mention that to her, though, and the worried line between her brows eased a little.

By that evening, he’d worked his way up to chicken broth. But sitting up to drink it left him exhausted, and his headache was, if anything, worse.

“You’re not going to work tomorrow,” El told him. “No arguments.”

“You won’t hear any,” he said. Even if they’d had an active case, he wouldn’t have been of any use to the team. “I should call Diana, though. Let her know she’ll have to be Neal’s handler for a couple days. Come to think of it,” he frowned, “where’s my phone?” He hadn’t seen it since Friday night, not that he’d had the capacity to worry about it much.

El handed it over. “I confiscated it. Five minutes.”

Peter thought about arguing, but it seemed like a waste of energy. If anything dire had happened, the Bureau would have called the house phone to reach him. But there were two voicemails - one from Diana about an hour earlier, and one from Sara about ten o’clock that morning. Peter knew better than to think Elizabeth wasn’t timing his five minutes, or that she wouldn’t pry the phone from his hands when they were up, but he checked them anyway.

Diana’s played first. _”Hi Peter,”_ she said, sounding absolutely awful. _”Just wanted to let you know that I think I’m going to be out for a couple of days. I’ve been horribly sick all weekend. I think I’m over the worst of it, but I don’t want to expose anyone else.”_

Peter called her. “Hey, Di,” he said, when she picked up.

“Hey boss. Wow, you too?”

“Yeah. I haven’t been this sick in years.”

“I’m not sure I’ve _ever_ been this sick.”

“Do you need anything?” Peter asked. Not that he was in a position to do much for her, but he could call Jones or Neal if need be.

“Nah, I’m okay. My sister’s in town, and she’s going to stick around for a couple of days.”

He’d forgotten about that. “Oh, right. Not the visit she was hoping for, I bet.”

“Not at all,” Diana sighed. “Well, hang in there, boss. Don’t come back before you’re ready.”

“That goes for you, too,” Peter said. He hung up. He’d have to put Jones in charge of Neal, he thought with a sigh. Not that that was a problem, precisely; it was just that sometimes, Jones was a little too amused by Neal. Peter trusted Diana to be tough on Neal when he needed it; he wasn’t sure he trusted Jones in quite the same way. But it was only for a couple of days.

He glanced at the clock. Only about a minute left before El re-confiscated his phone. He thought about just calling Jones, but he was curious to see why Sara had called.

 _”Hi Peter, it’s Sara,”_ she said. _“I was wondering if you’d heard from Neal this weekend. We were supposed to go to MOMA, but I never heard from him. I called him twice yesterday and once this morning, and he didn’t pick up. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but it’s not like him not to call me back, so I thought I should let you know.”_

“Okay, time’s up,” Elizabeth said, appearing in the doorway. She held her hand out.

“Diana’s sick,” Peter told her, without handing the phone over. “She’s got the same thing I do. And Sara left a message, saying that Neal was supposed to call her yesterday and he never did. She’s tried calling him three times, and he didn’t pick up.”

Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed, frowning. “You think Neal might be sick, too.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. He tightened his grip on his phone. “He mentioned on Friday that Moz and June are both out of town. If he’s sick, he’s been by himself for forty-eight hours. El, if you hadn’t been here -”

“Hon, calm down,” Elizabeth said, reaching out to stroke his hair back from his face. “We don’t know that Neal is sick. There are other reasons he might not have returned Sara’s call.”

“Not many good ones.”

“Well, maybe not,” Elizabeth admitted. “Let me take care of this, though, okay? You’re stressing yourself out.”

“Try calling Neal,” he told her, letting her have his phone at last, “and if you can’t reach him, call Sara. Tell her -”

Elizabeth laid a finger on his lips. He fell silent. “Peter, I’ve got this. I care about Neal, too. We’re going to make sure he’s all right, but I need to you to rest right now. Okay?”

Peter nodded. He waited until she took her finger away, then said quietly, “If he’s this sick, he shouldn’t be alone.”

“He won’t be, honey,” El said. “I promise.” She took Peter’s phone and left the room. Peter closed his eyes, feeling worn out just from making a phone call and listening to a couple of messages. This was one hell of a virus. He hoped El wouldn’t catch it, but if it’d managed to take down him, Diana, and Neal in one fell swoop, her odds probably weren’t great.

El came back after a few minutes. “Did you reach him?” Peter asked. 

“No,” El said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “But I did reach Sara. She’s going to go over there.”

“June’s gone, the house might be locked,” Peter realized.

“She’s stopping by here for your key first,” El replied, a little wryly. “I promise you, hon. We’ve got this.”

“I know you do,” Peter said, reaching for her hand. “It’s just that when it comes to Neal, I’m used to being the one responsible.” He should have realized something was wrong with Neal on Friday night, he thought. Neal had been far too quiet. If Peter hadn’t been so distracted by his own headache and weariness, he would have caught that and tried to figure out what was going on. 

“You’re blaming yourself,” El said, abruptly. “Stop that.”

Peter raised his eyebrows at her. “How did you -”

“I can see it in your eyes.” El shook her head at him. “If Neal’s sick, we’ll take care of him. But you don’t get to blame yourself for not figuring it out sooner, when you were in no condition to figure anything out all weekend.” She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “We won’t know anything for a little while. Try and get some rest.”

Peter didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, but he hadn’t counted on how completely exhausted he was. He dozed to the sounds of El moving around downstairs and woke briefly when he heard Sara come to the door for his key to June’s house. He wanted to get up, but even picking his head up off the pillow was too hard. _El’s got this_ , he thought, and went back to sleep. 

He woke not much later, feeling considerably worse than he had in hours. He spent about thirty seconds trying to quell the nausea before rolling out of bed. 

El found him throwing up in the bathroom. She wet a washcloth for the back of his neck and went to sit on the edge of the tub. She waited until he’d finished, then said, “Honey.”

“I know,” Peter said, slumping over against the toilet. “I know.”

“The doctor said the worst of the symptoms should go away in twenty-four hours. It’s been almost forty-eight.”

“I know,” Peter said again. “But -”

“But nothing, Peter. It -”

Peter’s phone rang. El gave him a look to say that they weren’t done with this, and pulled it out to glance at the screen. “It’s Sara,” she said, and answered it. “Hi, Sara.” She paused, and Peter, watching her face, saw her eyes widen. “Oh my God. Have you called 911?”

“What?” Peter demanded, alarmed. “What happened?”

El reached out and pressed a hand to his shoulder. Peter suspected he was supposed to find this reassuring. He didn’t. “Okay,” Elizabeth said after a long pause. “Do you know where - right. Okay. Are you okay?” She paused and her mouth twisted wryly. “Yeah, I bet. Keep us informed, all right? Bye.” She hung up. 

“El,” Peter said, “what the hell is going on?”

El shook her head. “Sara found Neal unconscious in his bathroom. She couldn’t wake him, so she called 911.”

“Oh God.” Peter closed his eyes. “ _Neal_.”

“He’s going to be all right, hon,” El said, sliding down to sit with him on the floor. She pulled him down to lie with his head on her lap. “They’ll pump him full of fluids at the hospital. He’ll be all right.” She stroked a hand through his hair. “But I’m really worried about you right now. Your fever doesn’t feel any lower, and you can’t even keep broth down.”

“It’s nine o’clock on a Sunday night,” Peter said. “The only thing open is the ER. I don’t want to sit in a waiting room for four hours, that sounds awful.”

“I know,” El said, still stroking his hair. “I know. I’m just worried.”

“I don’t think it’d help, anyway. I’m not seriously dehydrated, so I don’t think they could do much for me.” He wasn’t in Neal’s situation, after all. Peter couldn’t stop thinking about how miserable he’d been, even with El here to look after him, and imagining how much worse it must have been for Neal. Poor Neal, all on his own in that big house, getting worse and worse, until he passed out on his bathroom floor. He was lucky he hadn’t choked on his own vomit. 

“Okay,” El said, after a moment. “No ER. But if you’re not better by tomorrow, we should get you to the doctor, all right?”

“Yeah, okay.” Tomorrow, he might be able to get in to see his own doctor, and if not, at least urgent care would be open. That wouldn’t be as bad as the emergency room. But Peter hoped to avoid them both altogether. 

It was an hour and a half before they heard from Sara again. In the meantime, Peter let El help him back to bed, then succeeded in convincing her to let him call Jones to tell him the rest of the team was going to be out for at least the next few days. Peter more than half expected him to be sick, too, but it seemed he’d managed to avoid succumbing. “I’ll hold down the fort,” he promised. “You guys just get better as fast as possible.”

“Thanks, Jones,” Peter said, more grateful than ever for his team. 

When the phone finally did ring, Peter was dozing in bed, his head resting against El’s hip. “Let me talk to her,” he said, pushing himself up. El didn’t look happy about it, but she handed the phone over, and Peter answered. “Sara?”

“Peter!” she said, sounding surprised. “God, you sound awful.”

“Well,” he said with grimace, “considering I have the same virus that landed Neal in the hospital, I think I’m doing all right. How is he?”

“Well, he’s still out,” Sara said, “but they got an IV in him right away. The doctor won’t tell me much, because I’m not Neal’s next of kin, but he says he should be fine. They want to keep him overnight, regardless.”

“Probably a good idea,” Peter said. “Sara, I know this is asking a lot, but do you think you could -”

“Stay with him? Yes, Peter, of course.” 

“Thanks.”

“The question is, what about tomorrow after they release him? He shouldn’t be on his own. I can try to be around some, but I’m not really in a position right now to take a lot of time off.”

“Tomorrow,” Peter said slowly, and glanced at El. She nodded. “Tomorrow, bring him here after he’s released. We’ll look after him.”

“Okay,” Sara said, sounding relieved. “That sounds good.”

“And, Sara?” Peter added. “When he wakes up, if he’s with it enough, have him call me, all right? No matter what time it is.” El was frowning at him, he could feel it, but Peter didn’t care. 

“Will do, Peter,” Sara said. “See you tomorrow.”

Elizabeth took the phone back from him. “You don’t need to be getting three AM phone calls right now, Peter Burke.”

Peter knew she was right, but . . . “It’s Neal.”

“I know,” she said, mouth softening, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

It was after eleven when the phone rang again. Peter had been dozing while El read, but he wasn’t properly asleep yet. El got there first, though. “Sara?” she said, then, “Oh, Neal, sweetie. How are you?” She paused. “Yeah, I bet. Here, let me hand you over to Peter. Feel better.”

Peter took the phone. “Neal, buddy, how’re you doing?”

“Peter,” Neal said, in a weak, thin voice that Peter wasn’t sure he’d have recognized, had he not known it was Neal. “Not so good. But better than - than before.”

“Good,” Peter said. “Look, I don’t know what Sara’s told you, but she’s going to stay with you tonight, and tomorrow, after they let you go, she’s going to bring you here. Is that okay?”

“Oh,” Neal said, and if Peter wasn’t mistaken, his voice shook just a little. “Yeah, that’s . . . that sounds good.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Neal,” Peter said, as gently as possible. “You’re gonna be okay. Get some rest, and we’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

“Yeah,” Neal said. “You, too.”

They hung up. “Poor kid,” Peter said, putting his phone back on his nightstand. “Thanks for letting him stay here, El.”

“You’d have worried about him constantly otherwise,” El said, stroking a hand through Peter’s hair. “Better to have him where you can keep an eye on him. And where I can keep an eye on both of you.” She pressed her lips to his forehead. “Now let’s get some sleep.”

***

The next morning, Peter was woken by voices in the hallway outside the bedroom door. He pushed himself up on his elbow and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to orient himself. He’d slept for over ten hours, he realized, glancing at the bedside clock, and felt better than he had since Friday. In fact, he felt well enough to stand, retrieve his bathrobe from the back of the armchair, and go see what the fuss was.

The fuss was Neal and El, unsurprisingly. Peter paused in the threshold, half hidden by the bedroom door. Neal looked like he was barely standing, and El had a hand on his arm, clearly trying to steer him into the guest bedroom. “Neal, sweetie, Peter’s still sleeping,” she said, gently but very firmly. “You can see him after he wakes up, but he needs his rest. I’m happy to have you stay with us, but you need to understand that.”

Neal almost flinched. “Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sorry, El. I won’t bother Peter, I promise.”

“Hey, hey, Neal, it’s okay,” she said, reaching up and forcing him to look at her. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to look after both of you. Now, do you need to use the bathroom before you lie down?” Neal nodded. He shuffled into the bathroom and shut the door. El covered her face with her hands.

Peter finally opened the door the rest of the way. “Hon,” he said quietly. 

She turned. “Oh, Peter. I hope we didn’t wake you.”

“I think I was pretty close to awake anyway.” He went to stand beside her. She wrapped her arms around him, then checked his forehead with her hand. “Better?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” she said, with a distinct note of relief. “You look better, too. You actually have color in your face today. How are you feeling?”

“Not like I’m ready to run a marathon,” Peter admitted. “But I might actually be able to eat something.” He nodded toward the closed bathroom door. “How’s Neal?”

“A bit of a mess,” El sighed, leaning against Peter’s chest. “Sara said he slept really badly at the hospital. How much of our conversation did you hear?”

“Enough.” Peter eyed the bathroom door. “Hon, would you mind making some tea? That ginger stuff you got at the health food store?”

“Of course,” she said, clearly understanding the subtext. “But promise me you won’t be up for long. You really should still be in bed, even if you are feeling better.”

“Scout’s honor,” he said. 

Neal emerged from the bathroom a minute or so after El had gone downstairs. His eyes widened when he saw Peter waiting for him. “Peter,” he said, and stumbled toward him, almost falling against him. Peter brought his arms up to hold him; while El occasionally accused him of being emotionally obtuse, even he knew that this was not a moment for a back-slapping sort of hug. Neal pressed his face into Peter’s shoulder, and after a moment, Peter lifted one hand to the back of Neal’s neck. 

“You’re okay,” he said quietly. “You’re not on your own anymore. You’re here, and you’re safe. Got it?” Neal nodded against his shoulder. “Okay. Come on, then,” he said, pulling away and taking Neal by the arm.

“But,” Neal said, glancing over his shoulder at the guest room. 

“Easier on El if we’re in one place,” Peter replied. “Plus, there’s a TV in our room. Though I understand if you’d rather be alone,” he added, when Neal looked uncertain. “This whole experience has been pretty short on dignity, hasn’t it?”

Neal winced. “Yeah. I mean, no. I mean -”

Peter squeezed Neal’s arm. “I know what you mean. Come on.”

In the bedroom, Peter quickly spread up El’s side of the bed and prodded Neal into lying down on top of the covers. Peter pulled the comforter from the foot of the bed up and over Neal, making a mental note to ask El to bring in a couple blankets from the guest room. “Okay?” he asked, once he’d gotten Neal settled. 

“Yeah,” Neal said, faintly. His eyelids already looked heavy. Peter hesitated, then let his hand fall on the crown of Neal’s head. His hair was lank with feverish sweat and greasy from days without showering, but Peter pushed his fingers into it anyway. Neal sighed.

By the time El brought the tea up a few minutes later, Neal was sound asleep, and Peter was channel surfing. She paused in the doorway with the tray and surveyed the two of them, clearly trying to suppress a smile.

“Don’t say anything,” Peter muttered. 

“Not a word,” she promised, setting the tray, which held not only tea but also toast, on the bedside table. She held out the thermometer, and Peter obediently stuck it under his tongue. “Scootch over,” El said, and Peter moved over, letting El sit on the bed beside him. The thermometer beeped, and El took it out to read it. “A hundred and one point two. Heading in the right direction at least.” She passed him his tea. “How’s he doing?”

Peter looked down at Neal, whose head rested close to Peter’s hip. “Not great. But he’ll get there. If you need to go to work today, I think we’ll be okay here.”

El shook her head. “I’ve already arranged with Yvonne that I’ll work from home. You’re better, hon, but you’re still running a fever. You shouldn’t have to take care of yourself and Neal.”

Peter nodded, relieved. “Have I ever mentioned how lucky I am to have you?” 

“Once or twice. Do you think you could eat some toast?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “I think so.”

He ate half a slice, very slowly, and felt okay afterward, though not quite up to the other half. El brought in a couple extra blankets from the guest room, then went downstairs to work. Peter settled in with his mug of tea and a _Law and Order_ marathon. 

Neal slept for most of the morning. When he finally woke, just before noon, it was with a jerk and a gasp. “Easy there, buddy,” Peter said, when Neal blinked, clearly disoriented. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just . . .” Neal swallowed. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

He looked a little better than he had that morning, at least, though that might have been fever making his eyes seem bright. Neal curled up tighter under his pile of blankets, either not noticing or not caring that his head was almost in Peter’s lap. If Neal wasn’t going to mention it, Peter decided, then he wouldn’t either.

“You want some tea?” Peter asked. 

“Maybe in a bit.”

Peter was silent. He needed to say something, he thought, about what had happened the day before, because Neal never would. But maybe not right then. Later, when they were both feeling more themselves, he thought. For now, he didn’t think talking about anything was going to help much. The best thing he could do for Neal - the best thing he and Elizabeth could both do for Neal - was just be there. And since he wasn’t up to doing anything that would take him out of the house, that was something Peter could do very well. 

“ _Law and Order_?” Neal asked, apparently noticing what was on the TV for the first time. 

Probably not Neal’s favorite show, come to think of it. Normally, Peter would have argued with him, but he didn’t have the heart with Neal looking so wiped out. “Yeah, but we can change it. What do you want to watch? I bet you’re a _Leverage_ fan, aren’t you?”

Neal shrugged. “I don’t care. I’ll probably just fall asleep again.” He paused, looking vaguely interested for the first time. “Is _Leverage_ on right now?”

Peter rolled his eyes but switched over to the TV guide channel anyway. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

That was more or less how the two of them spent the next two days. By Tuesday Neal looked a bit more alert, but he was still, to Peter’s eye, worryingly passive. He barely picked at his food, and when Peter put on _Field of Dreams_ for the sole purpose of provoking him, he hardly grumbled. Elizabeth looked worried, too, and it was mostly for Neal’s sake that she continued to work from home, so that she could be there to prod him into eating something at every mealtime. 

To Peter’s surprise, Sara came by both Monday and Tuesday evenings, bearing matzo ball soup and a few essentials from Neal’s apartment. If she thought it was strange to find the two of them camped out together in the master bedroom, she didn’t say anything about it. She stayed for a couple hours, giving El a much-needed reprieve. Neal seemed glad to see her, but also rather taken aback, and Peter got to witness, for the first time ever, Neal Caffrey being _socially awkward_.

“I thought this might scare her off,” Neal admitted, after Sara left on Tuesday night. “Sara’s not really the caregiving sort. This isn’t what she signed up for.”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe not, but when the chips were down . . .”

“Yeah,” Neal said. “But not leaving me unconscious on my bathroom floor is one thing. I just didn’t think she’d come back until I was feeling better.”

“Seems you might’ve underestimated her, then.” 

“Hmm,” was all Neal said, but he looked thoughtful. Peter decided not to push it.

By Wednesday morning, Peter felt well enough to argue with El about going back to work, but it was Thursday before she let him do it. “I don’t want to see you at the office before Monday,” he told Neal as he stood in the threshold to the guest room, knotting his tie. He braced himself for protest, but Neal just nodded. “What, no argument?”

Neal sighed. “Can we just pretend there was?”

“Yep,” Peter said, simultaneously relieved and worried that Neal wasn’t putting up more of a fight. 

“But you know, I’m probably okay on my own now. You could drop me at June’s on your way in.”

“Unless you have food in the fridge and a well-stocked medicine cabinet, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Stay at least until the weekend, all right? Otherwise El will just worry.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t want _El_ to worry,” Neal said, giving him a look. He looked pleased, though, and more than a little relieved. 

Thursday was Diana’s first day back, as well. She looked about how Peter felt: well enough to be there, but not at a hundred percent, not yet. Any really exciting cases were going to have to go to other teams, Peter decided, until he and Diana were both back to normal. They spent Thursday and Friday going through piles of cold cases, marking ones to come back to when they were at full capacity again the following week. 

On Friday evening, Neal went back to June’s; Peter would have argued, but Sara picked him up and assured Peter, while Neal was upstairs getting his bag, that she’d be there at least through Saturday and possibly longer. Peter thought about the conversation he’d meant to have with Neal, but there was no opportunity, with Sara and El both there, and it seemed the moment had passed. Hopefully Neal had learned his lesson, he thought, and realized how much easier everything would have been if he’d just asked for help when he’d needed it.

Peter saw Neal and Sara into a cab and spent the rest of the evening on the sofa with El, watching TV with Satchmo at their feet. And that, Peter thought with relief, was the end of the whole unpleasant episode. 

Until three o’clock Sunday morning, when his phone rang.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter fumbled for the phone on the bedside table, almost knocking over his water glass in the process. “Hello,” he finally managed, disconnecting the phone from its charging cord so he could sit up. Beside him, El pushed herself up on one arm. 

“Peter, it’s Sara,” Sara said, sounding worried and distracted. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I think Neal’s having some sort of relapse.”

Peter shoved the covers back. “What’s going on?”

“He’s vomiting again,” she said. “I woke up, and he wasn’t in the bed. When he didn’t come back, I went looking for him, and found him -”

“Got it,” Peter said, tucking the phone between his face and his shoulder while pulling on yesterday’s jeans. “Any fever?”

“I think so,” she said, “though he doesn’t have a thermometer that I could find. He’s kind of out of it - I’m not sure he knew who I was at first, though Neal being Neal, he covered pretty well.” She sighed. “He had a headache this afternoon. He tried to tell me it was nothing, but I could tell it was really bothering him - he kept flinching at bright lights, and he wouldn’t eat anything at dinner. I should have known then.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Peter said. “He’s a conman, remember? Even when he’s off his game. I’m on my way, all right? Be there in twenty, hopefully.” At this time on a Sunday, there shouldn’t be any traffic.

He hung up. El, watching him from the bed, said, “Neal?”

“He’s puking again,” Peter said, “and apparently feverish enough to be out of it.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll be in touch, let you know what’s going on.”

“You’d better,” she said. “And if _you_ start not feeling well again -”

“I’ll be fine, El,” Peter said. “Neal was a lot worse than me to begin with.” He kissed her again, grabbed his keys, and left. 

June’s house was dark when he let himself in, emanating an empty, unused feeling; it appeared she was still out of town. Peter climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and knocked. Sara opened the door immediately. “Oh, thank God,” she said, letting him in. “Sorry for dragging you out here.”

“Don’t worry about it. Better this than what happened last time. Where is he?”

“Bathroom,” Sara said, gesturing. 

Peter hurried into the back of Neal’s apartment, past his (utterly _ridiculous_ ) dressing room to the bathroom. He found Neal wedged into the corner between the tub and the wall, arms wrapped around himself, shivering. His eyes were unfocused, staring at nothing.

Peter glanced at Sara. “He wouldn’t let me touch him,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Her mouth was set in a thin, worried line. 

“Right,” Peter sighed. “Okay.” He went and crouched down right in front of Neal. “Neal, buddy,” he said, and Neal looked at him. “Hey. How’re you doing?”

Neal frowned. “I . . . Peter?” 

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, reaching out to press his hand to Neal’s forehead. The poor kid was burning up. “That’s quite a fever you have there.”

“That’s what Kate said,” Neal replied. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

Peter glanced over his shoulder at Sara; she covered her mouth with her hand, eyes worried. He turned back to Neal. “That . . . might be a while,” he said. “But I’m here and Sara’s here, and we’re going to take care of you, all right?”

Neal shook his head, then winced, a pain line forming between his brows. “No, no, I told Kate I’d wait for her.”

“She’s been delayed, buddy. And we need to get you to a doctor.”

“But -”

“No but’s, Neal,” Peter said, firmly. “Come on, stand up with me.” Peter slipped an arm around Neal’s back and tried to stand up slowly. Neal leaned into him heavily but didn’t seem to be in danger of passing out. “Okay, good,” Peter said, when they were both standing. “Let’s get you into something a bit warmer.”

Neal was strangely passive as Peter and Sara dressed him in track pants and an old sweatshirt. There was no more talk of Kate, at least, for which Peter was grateful, but there was also no protest about the unattractive clothing. And when Peter pulled Neal to his feet again, from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, he staggered and would have fallen, except Peter caught hold of him in time. “Whoa,” Peter said, steadying him. “Neal?”

Neal leaned on him heavily. “Peter?” he said, blinking slowly. “When did you get here?”

Peter glanced at Sara. “A few minutes ago,” he said. “Don’t you remember?”

“No,” Neal said, then closed his eyes. “I feel really weird.”

“Like you did before?” Peter asked, easing him back onto the bed. 

“No,” Neal said, giving the slightest shake of his head. “I’m dizzy. And so tired. Peter, just let me go back to sleep, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” Peter said. “You don’t remember me getting here, and a few minutes ago, you were asking me when Kate was coming back. You’ve got a fever, and you’re puking again. We’re taking you to the ER.”

“Don’t even try it,” Sara said, even as Neal turned pleading eyes toward her. “I’m with Peter on this.”

“I just want to sleep,” Neal said miserably, while Peter went to get a jacket for him from the hall closet. 

“I know,” he heard Sara reply. “They’ll give you a bed at the ER, you can sleep there.” Peter turned back and saw that Neal was leaning into her, and she’d put her arms around him, holding him against her. 

“Yeah, great,” Neal muttered, but he looked resigned when Peter handed him his jacket. 

The trip down the stairs was unexpectedly difficult. Neal’s balance was off, and he kept staggering into Peter. Twice, it was only Peter’s quick reflexes that kept them both from falling. Sara did her best to help, but other than try to steady Neal from his other side, there wasn’t much she could do in the narrow confines of the staircase. By the time they reached the bottom, Neal was the color of paste, and Peter was breathing heavily from adrenaline and exertion. “Stay with him,” Peter told Sara, as he helped Neal sit on a bench just inside June’s foyer. “I’ll be right back with the car.”

The cold night air seemed to wake Neal up, if only briefly. Sara sat with him in the back seat while Peter drove. None of them spoke. Peter glanced in the rearview mirror periodically, meeting Sara’s worried eyes. Neal leaned against her, eyes closed. 

Peter dropped them off at the entrance to the ER, then went to park the car. They’d been ushered into the back by the time he returned, but flashing his badge won him entrance. Neal was already lying on a bed under a blanket and looked halfway to being asleep, barely twitching when a nurse put an IV into his arm. Peter dragged in a second visitor’s chair and settled in to wait, texting El to let her know what was going on. 

“This is weird, Peter,” Sara said, after a few minutes of sitting in silence. 

Peter slipped his phone back in his pocket. “I know.”

“Healthy people don’t get sick like this twice in such close succession.”

“I know,” he said again. “We’ll see what the doctor says. Did they do any blood tests last time?” 

Sara shook her head. “I don’t think so. They said it was a GI virus that’d been going around and gave him fluids.”

Peter nodded, frowning. “Yeah, that’s what my doctor said, too. Well, at least this time you were with him.”

“If he’d had his way, I wouldn’t have been. After he didn’t eat anything at dinner last night, he started subtly hinting that perhaps it was time for me to head home.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “And here I’d hoped he’d learned that particular lesson.”

Sara shrugged. “I get it. I don’t tend to want anyone around when I’m sick, either. It’s embarrassing.”

“But it was really dangerous last time,” Peter said, frowning. “And it could have been this time, too, if you had left him alone.”

“I know, Peter,” Sara said. “Believe me, I know. I was there. But I understand where he’s coming from. When you’ve been alone for a long time, you get used to fending for yourself. Having other people around just feels intrusive.” She glanced at him sideways. “Not everyone has an Elizabeth.”

“But he does have people,” Peter said. Despite his best efforts, he knew he sounded frustrated. “If only he’d let them be there for him.”

“Yes, well.” Sara sighed. “It’s possible that I’m not the right person to deliver that particular message. I’m pretty much the poster child for dysfunctional self-reliance. Apparently I have _issues_ ,” she made air quotes, “with vulnerability. Or so my therapist informs me.”

Peter glanced at her. “And yet you stayed with him when he was in the hospital.”

“Well, I couldn’t very well _abandon_ him there, could I? Give me some credit, please.”

“And this weekend?” 

Sara looked uncomfortable. “I have a harder time explaining that. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. Fortunately for Neal.”

Peter sighed, looking over at Neal, pale and still in the narrow hospital bed. “Fortunately for Neal,” he agreed, and decided to let the subject drop. It wasn’t really his business anyway, though Sara was right about Neal. It seemed Peter should have had that talk with him while he’d had the chance.

A few minutes later, a resident in a white coat pushed back the curtain and introduced herself as Dr. Clark. Neal roused a little, but not very much, leaving Peter and Sara to answer the doctor’s questions, while she made notes on a clipboard. Then she made Neal sit up, which he did half-heartedly, squeeze her hands, and follow a light with his eyes. The light made him flinch, and she frowned. “Any stiffness in your neck?” she asked. 

“No,” Neal said.

“Touch your chin to your chest,” Dr. Clark said. Neal did so. “Any pain?” He shook his head. “Okay. You can lie down again, Mr. Caffrey.”

Neal lay down, and Dr. Clark scribbled something on her clipboard. “What’s the verdict?” Peter asked, since Neal looked entirely uninterested. 

“I’m ordering some bloodwork and a CT scan,” she said. “Mr. Caffrey is fatigued and drowsy. That, and the vomiting, fever, and confusion you mentioned, makes me think he might have encephalitis.”

Peter frowned. “What’s that?” 

“It’s inflammation of the brain,” Sara said slowly. “Is that right?”

Dr. Clark nodded. “It can be serious, if it’s not treated, but you brought Mr. Caffrey in quickly, so I’m optimistic that he’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about the reasons for the inflammation. Encephalitis is a symptom, not the underlying cause. You said he was ill last week?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “We both were, actually.”

Dr. Clark glanced at him sharply. “You were sick as well, Agent Burke?”

“Yeah.”

“Was anyone else ill?”

“Another member of my team,” Peter said. “But we both recovered. I feel fine.” 

Dr. Clark did not look convinced. “I’d like to run some blood work for you, too, if that’s all right.”

“I guess so,” Peter said, shrugging. 

“Good. I’ll have a nurse come back and get your insurance information.” She left, pulling the curtain shut behind her. 

Peter filled out a clipboard with his insurance information, then rolled up his sleeve and let a technician draw some blood. At that point, an orderly came to take Neal down for his CT scan. Peter sat in the visitor’s chair next to Sara to wait, tilting his head back to rest against the wall. He was suddenly exhausted.

He closed his eyes to rest them, just for a minute, but when he opened them again, it was clear that significant time had passed. There was morning light coming in the window, and Neal was back, asleep on the narrow emergency room bed. Sara was gone, and in her place was Elizabeth. 

Peter blinked and lifted his head, wincing. A headache had settled in at the base of his skull from falling asleep in such a strange position. “Good morning,” he said, pressing a hand to the back of his neck. “When did you get here?” 

“About an hour ago. Sara called me. She couldn’t stay, but she didn’t want to leave you two on your own.”

“You should’ve woken me.” 

“You were pretty deeply asleep, hon.”

“Yeah, I guess I was,” Peter said. It wasn’t like him to fall asleep in a strange place like this. Doze off for a bit, maybe, but a glance at his watch told him that he’d slept for over two hours. 

“How are you feeling?” El asked.

“I’m fine, why do you - oh no,” he said, turning to look at her, “no. This is because they drew some blood, isn’t it? El, I’m fine, really.”

“Yeah?” she said. “How’s your head?”

Peter sighed. “I have a minor headache, but I fell asleep with my neck at a weird angle - it’s nothing more than that.”

“Peter, in the thirteen years we’ve been together, I have never known you to fall asleep sitting up, in a busy room, for _two hours_.” El shook her head and glanced over at Neal. “You’ll forgive me if I worry.”

Peter decided there wasn’t much he could do to reassure her. He’d just have to wait for his blood work to come back negative. “How’s Neal?” he asked instead.

El sighed. “He was sort of awake when I got here. He called me ‘Kate’ at first, then seemed to realize who I was. I tried to get him to drink some water, but he said he was nauseated. He’s been asleep ever since.”

“No word from the doctor?” She shook her head. “Well, I guess we just wait then.”

“Would you mind if I made a run for some breakfast and coffee?” 

“Sure. Bring me back something?” 

El kissed him. “Of course.”

It was surprisingly difficult not to fall asleep again in the twenty minutes El was gone. Peter was glad when she returned, with two cups of coffee in a cardboard holder and a sack of pastries. Peter took a Danish, even though whatever hunger he’d felt earlier seemed to have vanished. Two bites in, his stomach turned, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat any more of it. He sipped at his coffee, hoping that that would help, but realized immediately that that had been the wrong thing to do. “I’ll be right back,” he said to El. “Just gonna run to the men’s room.”

The men’s room was empty, at least, so no one had to listen to Peter as he threw up his two bites of Danish, which were all he’d had since the night before. He slumped against the side of the stall, his headache suddenly much worse. The longer he took, the more suspicious El would be, but it was hard to find the energy to stand. 

He eventually managed to pull himself up off the floor. He splashed some cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth out, then left the men’s room - only to find Elizabeth waiting for him, leaning against the wall outside. 

“So,” she said. “Still fine?”

Peter grimaced. No use in arguing about this. “All right, hon. You win.”

“Believe me,” she said, steering him back toward Neal’s cubicle, “I wish I hadn’t.”

El sat him down in the visitor’s chair and then vanished, returning eventually with a nurse. Peter cooperated while she took his vital signs, but he was starting to wish they’d give him a bed and let him lie down. Following the nurse’s finger was harder than it should have been, and the florescent lights made his headache exponentially worse. “Okay, Agent Burke,” the nurse said when she was done. “Give us just a couple minutes to try and make you comfortable. Dr. Clark should be in shortly.”

By what Peter supposed was a fortunate coincidence - if anything about any of this could be called fortunate - the bed next to Neal’s was empty. They put them him there, then pulled the curtain around both beds and set up an IV for Peter, despite his protests that he didn’t need one. “Hon, just let them do their job,” El finally said, and she looked so worried that Peter gave up. It was taking an awful lot of effort to argue, anyway. 

Lying down was a relief, and Peter didn’t even protest when El tucked a blanket over him; he was starting to feel chilled. He turned his head to the side to try and get away from the brightness of the overhead lights, and saw Neal looking back at him, eyes just barely cracked open. “You too?” Neal said, weakly. 

“Seems so,” Peter replied. “How’re you doing?”

Apparently this was a hard question. Neal didn’t answer for a few seconds. “Better, I think,” he said at last. “But I’m so tired.”

Peter could feel it plucking at him, too, the urge to just sleep. “Try to stay awake for a couple minutes. The doctor should be in soon.” Hopefully with some answers. 

Dr. Clark appeared just as Peter was about to give in himself and close his eyes. She had both their charts in hand and seemed to Peter to be inappropriately cheerful about the whole situation. “How are my two most interesting patients?” she asked, pulling the curtain closed behind her. 

Peter was not in the mood for pleasantries or banter. “Did you get the results of Neal’s tests?” 

“Yes, I did,” Dr. Clark said, apparently taking the hint. “Do you mind if I share them, Mr. Caffrey?” Neal gave a listless but assenting wave of his hand. “Okay. The CT scan did indeed show swelling of the brain, which is what is causing your symptoms, Mr. Caffrey - both of your current symptoms,” she added, glancing at Peter. “But as I said, the encephalitis itself is a symptom, not the underlying cause, and that’s why we wanted to run some blood tests. The tests for Mr. Caffrey were inconclusive - but your bloodwork, Agent Burke, was not. You both have a virus called lymphocytic choriomeningitis - though in your cases, it’s presenting as encephalitis.”

“That sounds serious,” El said, reaching for Peter’s hand. 

“It can be,” Dr. Clark said, “and I’d definitely like to admit both Mr. Caffrey and Agent Burke for a couple of days so that we can treat their symptoms. But the mortality rate with this virus is very, very low - less than one percent.”

“Is this also what made us sick before?” Neal asked, frowning. 

Dr. Clark nodded. “The fact that you were both sick a few days ago is what made me think we were looking at LCMV. The first stage of this particular illness looks a lot like a stomach virus. It’s only with the second stage that you get symptoms of meningitis or encephalitis.”

Peter glanced at El and frowned. “This doesn’t sound like something you’d just pick up anywhere. How contagious is it? Is my wife safe? Do we need to -”

Dr. Clark held her hands up. El squeezed Peter’s hand, and he quieted. “The good news,” Dr. Clark said, “for you and for us, is that it isn’t transmissible from human to human. It’s carried by rodents. Can you think of any time that you would have been exposed to mice or mouse urine? It would’ve been a few days before you got sick the first time.”

Peter frowned. It was hard to think past the pounding in his head. “I can’t -”

“Peter,” Neal said. Peter looked at him. “The warehouse Donaldson was using. There were -”

“- rats,” Peter finished. “Of course. That’s why Diana - oh God, Diana. El?”

“I’ll call her now,” El said, holding her hand out for Peter’s cell phone. He handed it to her, and she stepped out into the hallway. 

“Diana is the other member of your team who got sick?” Dr. Clark said. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, rubbing his thumb between his brows. “But there someone else in the warehouse, too, Agent Jones, and he didn’t get sick at all.”

Dr. Clark nodded. “That’s not so unusual. Some individuals are immunocompetent.”

“Lucky bastard,” Neal muttered. 

Dr. Clark visibly suppressed a smile. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Yeah,” Neal said, to Peter’s surprise. “How long are we going to feel like this?”

Her smile turned sympathetic. “Hopefully not for very long. We’ll want to keep you under observation in the hospital for at least two or three days, until the swelling goes down. But you may feel tired and rundown for a while yet. I wouldn’t count on going back to work for at least a week.”

Peter groaned, thinking of the lost productivity of almost two full weeks with himself and two of his top team members out. But the truth was that he was feeling too terrible to argue, and somehow he didn’t think that Neal would back him up if he tried lying to El about it. 

El returned a few minutes after Dr. Clark had left to start the paperwork to admit them. “Did you reach Diana?” Peter asked her. 

She shook her head. “I called Clinton, though, and he said he’d go over to her place and check on her.”

“He should bring her here,” Peter said. “Tell them they should ask for Dr. Clark at the -”

“Hon,” El said, putting a hand on his arm. 

Peter shut his mouth. “You did that already.”

“Yes.”

He gave her a small smile. “You got this?” 

“I got this,” she said, and kissed him on the forehead. 

It was after noon by the time Peter and Neal were given a double room on the fifth floor of the hospital. It was much quieter than the ER, and after El turned the lights off at Peter’s request, it was much dimmer, too. Peter fell asleep immediately.

***

When Peter woke, the room was dark - the true dark of night, not just midday with the lights off. He groaned, feeling even worse than he had earlier. His head was splitting and his whole body ached. He turned his head and saw Neal, curled up on his side in the other bed, watching him closely. “Peter?” Neal said, picking his head up of the pillow. “You with us?”

“Think so,” Peter said, his own voice rough in his ears. “Was I not?”

Neal pushed himself up. “In a manner of speaking. Do you remember anything?”

Peter frowned. When he thought hard, he had faint memories of the last few hours, of El and Neal, of other people he didn’t know, of an overwhelming, inescapable feeling that something was terribly _wrong_ , even if he couldn’t figure out what it was. He’d had strange dreams, too, but all that remained of them now was the haunting feeling that he was being chased, that he was cornered and couldn’t get away. He shuddered faintly. “Not much. What happened?”

“You were really out of it for a while there. Delirious.” 

Neal was still watching him closely. Whatever had happened, Peter had the feeling it’d scared him, badly. And if it’d scared Neal, it’d probably _really_ scared Elizabeth. “Where’s El?”

“They sent her home a few hours ago,” Neal said. “She wanted to sleep here, but they said you’d turned a corner, and it wouldn’t do any of us any good.” He reached for his call button. “We should let them know you’re awake.”

“No, don’t -” Peter said, but it was too late. 

The night duty nurse appeared only a minute or two later. “Agent Burke,” she said, “it’s good to see you lucid. I’m Gwen. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Peter said, almost without thinking about it.

“He’s lying, Gwen,” Neal said. 

“I figured as much,” Gwen said, sounding almost amused. “May I take your blood pressure and your temperature, Agent Burke?”

Peter suspected he didn’t _really_ have a choice, but it was nice of her ask. He nodded and let her poke him and prod him. She made satisfied noises at both his blood pressure and his temperature, told them to get some rest, and left them alone. 

Peter was quiet for a moment. “How bad was it?” he asked at last.

“Bad,” Neal said, not quite looking him in the eye. “Guess it was my turn to be on the other side of that. Not something I care to repeat.”

“Me neither,” Peter agreed. “Don’t really care to repeat any of this. Is Diana all right?”

“She’s down the hall,” Neal said. “El went and saw her for a bit earlier. I think she’s doing okay. And Jones said Donaldson has it, too, or did - he checked up after I told him where we thought we’d gotten it, and it turns out he’s been in and out of the prison infirmary ever since he got there.”

“ _Good_ ,” Peter said, a little viciously. But since that bastard was the one who’d hauled them all out to a rat-infested, disease-ridden warehouse to begin with, he thought it mostly warranted. 

His phone rang. Peter groped for it on the bedside table; it seemed like his hands and his brain still weren’t fully connected. “That’ll be El,” Neal said. “I texted her while Gwen was here.”

Peter answered it. “Hey hon,” he said, rolling away from Neal for at least the illusion of privacy.

“Hey hon,” she said, sounding deeply relieved. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty awful,” Peter admitted. “But I’m okay. Neal said I scared the two of you.”

“Yeah, you went downhill really fast. Your doctor didn’t seem very worried, but it was still really scary for Neal and me.”

“I’m sorry, El,” Peter said, feeling unaccountably guilty. 

She sighed. “I’d tell you not to do it again, but it wasn’t your fault to start with. I’m just glad it seems like the worst is over.”

“Me, too,” Peter said fervently. “Neal said you saw Diana?”

“Yeah, just for a little while.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Better than either you or Neal, actually,” El said. “She had a mild fever and some other flu-like symptoms this time around, but she’s really only in the hospital because you two were so sick, and they wanted to keep an eye on her. I’m sure she’ll come see you tomorrow. But get some sleep now, all right? I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks, El. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Peter hung up and rolled back. He thought at first that Neal had fallen asleep, but after a moment or two, he said, without opening his eyes, “I don’t remember much from the house, but I think I might’ve yelled at Sara. How badly do you think I scared her?”

“Don’t think she scares easily.” Peter closed his eyes. “She was really worried about you.”

“Yeah, she called earlier. She said she’d be by tomorrow.” Neal sighed sleepily. “G’night, Peter.”

“G’night, Neal,” Peter said. He closed his eyes and slept. This time, there weren’t any nightmares.

It was two days before the hospital finally let them go. This was one day longer than Peter thought necessary, but both his doctor and El disagreed. Despite a steady stream of visitors - Jones and Sara mostly, and Diana once she was released - bearing various gifts of books, food, and flowers, by the time two orderlies finally wheeled him and Neal out to El’s car, hospital life had started to wear on both of them. Neal hadn’t argued at all about staying with them, but when they got to the house, he went into the guest room and shut the door firmly. Peter was just as glad. 

Elizabeth made sure that Neal had everything he needed, then came and curled up with Peter on their bed. “Too much togetherness?” she asked wryly, stroking a hand through Peter’s hair. 

“It was a lot of togetherness,” Peter muttered, resting his head on El’s shoulder. “I think Neal and I prefer each other in smaller doses.”

“Hon, you live in each other’s back pockets most of the time,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, but we don’t sleep in the same room. He snores,” Peter added, grumpily. “He claims he doesn’t, but he _does_.”

“And you talk in your sleep,” she said, all too reasonably. “Seems about even.”

“Hmph.”

El visibly suppressed a smile. “Well, I’m just glad to have both of you home.”

Peter sighed. “Me too,” he said after a moment. And he wouldn’t have wanted Neal anywhere but in his guest room, he admitted to himself. 

By the next morning, after the best night’s sleep he’d had in days, with _no snoring_ to interrupt it, Peter felt a little more charitable toward Neal. Neal seemed to feel the same way; after El left for work, he shuffled downstairs, where Peter was ensconced in his recliner watching TV. He got one of the fancy coconut waters El had bought for him from the fridge and came and sprawled out on the sofa under El’s mom’s handmade afghan. Satchmo, who’d been curled up on the rug next to Peter, went and lay down by the sofa, so that his head was under Neal’s trailing hand. Neal took the hint and started scratching behind his ears.

Once the show he’d been half-watching was over, Peter turned the TV off. Neither of them spoke for a minute or two. Peter didn’t know about Neal, but he was savoring the quiet. 

“Is there anything better,” Neal ventured at last, “than _not_ being in the hospital?”

Peter gave a brief laugh. “I’m going to say no.” He hesitated, thinking of the talk he’d kept meaning to have with Neal. The hospital hadn’t felt like the place for it, but now that they were both home and on the mend, he didn’t think he should put it off any longer. “Neal,” he said, and then paused, unsure of how to begin. 

Neal looked at him. “Is this the talk about how there are people who care about me, and I can ask for help when I need it?”

Peter blinked. “Uh. It was going to be. How did you know?”

“Because Elizabeth and Sara both beat you to it.”

Peter blinked again. “They did?”

“Yup. But if you’d like to give your version anyway, I’m all ears,” he added, with an air of magnanimity. 

Peter supposed the more people Neal heard it from, the more likely it was to actually sink in. “You know you can ask for help when you need it, right?” 

Neal rolled his eyes. “For the record, both El and Sara are better at this than you are.”

Peter glared. “Cut me some slack, I’m still recovering.”

“Are you claiming you’d be better at this if you weren’t?”

Peter opened his mouth, then shut it. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But the question stands.”

Neal gave a put-upon sigh. “Yes, Peter, I do know that.”

“Okay, so,” Peter said, frowning, “why didn’t you? And not just the first time, either,” he added. “Sara told me that when you got sick the second time, you tried to talk her into leaving. After ending up in the hospital only the week before!”

Neal was quiet. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “The first time, I thought it was food poisoning, and I didn’t want to drag you all the way out from Brooklyn just because I’d eaten something bad. By the time I realized it wasn’t going to just go away, I was too weak to scrape myself off the bathroom floor, and my phone was in the bedroom.”

Peter winced. “That sounds awful.” 

“It was,” Neal said quietly. “And I don’t want it to happen again, believe me.”

“Then what about the second time?”

Neal sighed. “I actually did think about calling you, but Sara was there, and . . . I really wasn’t sure what to do. She and I aren’t serious right now. Holding my head while I puke my guts out is not part of our _amis amants_ agreement. Or so I assumed.”

“I’m surprised she talked to you about this at all,” Peter said. “I had the impression she didn’t think she had much of a leg to stand on, when it came to asking for help.”

“She doesn’t,” Neal said, and smiled a little. “But we agreed we’d try to be better about it.”

Peter nodded, pleased for them both. “Good.” 

“I’m sorry I scared everyone,” Neal said after a moment. “I don’t think I realized how terrifying it must have been until you got really sick in the hospital. I hadn’t thought about how it would feel to be on the other side of that. But you have to realize -” He stopped, uncharacteristically hesitant. Peter waited, patiently. “It’s been years, Peter. Moz and I look after each other, sure, but we’re both free agents in the end. I don’t even know where he is right now. And when I was a kid, my mom . . . well, it’s a good thing I had Ellen.” 

Peter sighed. “Yeah. I get that.”

“It takes some getting used to, that’s all.”

Peter nodded. The two them were silent for a moment or two. Peter was just about to turn the TV back on, when Neal said, very quietly, “Thank you.” Peter glanced at him, but Neal wasn’t looking at him. “For letting me stay with you and - and everything,” he clarified, picking at the fuzz on the afghan. “It takes some getting used to, but it’s . . . nice, not being on my own.”

“Anytime. All you have to do is ask.”

“Or even if I don’t,” Neal said, ruefully. 

Peter reached over and ruffled Neal’s hair. “Even if you don’t,” he agreed.

_Fin._


End file.
